Keeping close at master’s heels, I listened to hear what Fifeson had to say for himself.
“I say, sir,” he said in a low, almost agonised voice, “for heaven’s sake send Mr. Bonstone down here, and don’t tell his wife who it is—it might cost me my life, sir—it might.”
“All right,” said my master, “don’t be scared. Only the dogs know, and they won’t peach.”
Fifeson had seen us. He knew that though the dogs hated him, they would not hurt him. He had been their master. Even in the midst of his perturbation, he clicked his dry tongue, and snapped his fingers at his old victims. Not one of them would go near him. Weary Winnie made a kind of shuffle toward him, but Gringo growled at her, and kept her from carrying out her impulse. The dogs wouldn’t hurt him, but they wouldn’t forgive him.
I ran after master to the veranda. “Norman,” he said carelessly to his friend, “a man has come from New York to see you on special business. He doesn’t want his presence known. Just step down to the syringas, and speak to him.”
Mrs. Bonstone is a very clever woman. She gave master a quick look, and catching up her little silk wrap said, “Good night, I’m going to bed.”
As soon as she was gone, Mr. Bonstone brought Fifeson up on the veranda, and gave him something to drink. He gulped down his ginger ale in a flash, and said a few hasty words.
His breath was nearly all gone, for the night was warm, and he had rushed uphill part of the way. However, he had had time to recover himself in the bushes. I think perhaps it was fear that made him hot.
“You know Jones’ big jewelry store down town,” he said to Mr. Bonstone in a low voice.
Mr. Bonstone nodded.